Chances of Survival
by JimKirk1
Summary: Yes, I revised the story. Summary: Kirk keeps having visions about an opera house, with five white-robed people and what appears to be a bathtub with an old man hooked up to it who tells him some woman is the Harbinger of Doom. Unsure of the meaning of the vision, the pieces begin to fall into place when he encounters a fleet of humans with that very woman from his dreams. WIP.
1. Flashbacks and Visions and Dreams, Oh My

Chances of Survival

Chapter 1

* * *

Author's Note: This is the first chapter of a basically completely re-written fanfiction I've been working on for a little bit. It's different, and some people may not approve, which is why I'm also keeping the original. Enjoy!

Oh, and it's gonna be long. Like, way longer than the previous stories I've written by several times. Just bear with me.

* * *

He was starting to get second thoughts.

 _Why'd I do this?_ Bill thought, as he abruptly flipped his Viper MK. III around. Gunning the engines, the fighter shot forward, engine plumes glowing a glowing neon blue. The Cylon Raider engaging him also gunned its engines, shooting towards Bill's Viper, firing its guns. He expertly twitched the joystick, throwing the Viper into a hard roll, high-caliber rounds whistling by, one actually pinging off his bulletproof canopy.

Bill fired his guns, the red tracers blazing into the monochrome and bleak bluish-green of the dense gas cloud. The Raider effortlessly dodged his salvo, and took off in the opposite direction, taunting Bill to pursue.

The radio sparked to life, its tinny speaker crackling before clearing into intelligible speech.

" _...the hell are you doing?_ " the radio said.

 _Probably the CAG_ , Bill thought. _Frakking CAGs. Always think they're top of the world._

"Doing what I have to, sir," Bill said.

" _What are you, stupid? You can't take on three Raiders at the same-_ "

Bill swung his Viper around, firing straight into the cockpit of an attacking Raider, which flamed out and started drifting. "Two Raiders, you mean."

" _Are you trying to get yourself killed? Motherfrakking idiot!_ " the CAG shouted. " _Get your ass out of there, now!_ "

"No way, I got this," he replied, swinging the front of his Viper around to counter another attack run by one of the two Raiders. "It'll be fine," he said, as he took off yet again, bearing down on the Raider.

He fired a short burst, the red tracers shooting out and narrowly missing the Raider he was chasing.

"Come on, you toaster bastard," he muttered, as he jammed down the trigger once more, firing a long, rather excessive burst that connected with the Raider and sent it tailspinning.

"Yeah!" he shouted, pumping his fists in the cockpit as the hit Raider essentially disappeared in a fiery explosion. The Viper flew straight into the flaming wreck, and Bill's canopy struck a large chunk of the Raider's wing with enough force to crack all the glass in the canopy.

"Woah!" Bill jumped and looked around as he frantically tried to get his bearings. "I can't see!"

" _Kid, get out of there!_ " the voice shouted.

Bill quickly gazed over the cockpit, trying to find the right switch…

He flipped up the cover, flicked the switch up, and the canopy cover blew out, drifting off on its own. He sighed.

"Much better," he muttered, as he craned his head to see the Raider swerving away. He really hoped it was leaving for good.

" _Kid, are you crazy? You know how high the radiation levels here are? You got 30 seconds to pull out! Get out! That's an orde-"_

The voice cut off abruptly, Bill smiling as he let his hand fall back to his joystick after turning off the radio.

"Alright. Back to business," he muttered, as he flipped the fighter over to face the direction the Raider had gone. _25 seconds left_ , he mentally counted.

The Raider quickly and efficiently spun around and shot towards Bill's Viper.

"Time to get real," he said to himself, as he slammed the throttle forward, propelling him to several times the speed of sound in less than 10 seconds, and continued accelerating. _15 seconds_. He fired his guns in a three-second burst, tracers whizzing past the Cylon fighter mostly harmlessly. Some, though, did connect and hit the outer wing, which started leaking what appeared to be… _What is that?_ Bill wondered. _Looks like red oil, or… blood._

The Raider began to break away, trailing what Bill could only assume was oil. He twitched the joystick with almost casual ease, adjusting the Viper's vector to match that of the Raider, and gunned the engines. _12 seconds_. He pulled behind the Raider, and grinned as he pressed the trigger for his guns. And nothing happened.

"Frak!" he shouted, as he repeatedly pressed the trigger, and nothing happened, red lights for "Weapons Malfunction" flashing incessantly on his display. _8 seconds_.

"You know what? Frak that," he muttered, as he pushed the Viper even faster, pulling up beside the Raider. _This is a bad idea_ , he thought as he pulled out his pistol, and fired, multiple shots punching through the canopy of the enemy fighter, which began to lose control, and burst into flames as a shot hit a fuel tank that then exploded. He whooped aloud, almost giddy with happiness as the nebula around him dissolved into a stream of disorganized pixels.

" _Congratulations_ ," a disembodied voice said. " _You have completed level six_."

The Viper began to pixelate and dissolve as Bill, laughing, pulled off his Holoband, and took in his actual surroundings.

It was a pretty dark place, with rather dim fluorescent lights, painting everything in a harsh shade of whitish-blue. Everyone was either sleeping, smoking, or playing cards, with no one really doing anything else.

"Got a high sim score?" a woman asked inquisitively. She was of dark complexion, he noticed, with a hard face and steely gray eyes which were decidedly unnerving and also fascinating to look at. Bill smiled.

"Not just a high sim score, the top sim score," he said, slathering on the swagger like it was going out of style. Her eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, really?" she asked, mildly skeptical. Bill nodded.

"Yep. Really," he replied. She relented, giving Bill the benefit of the doubt. Then she smirked, one not unlike his own.

"Let me guess," she said, shifting in her seat to try to get into a more comfortable position. "You've been itching to fly ever since you were in short pants. I can see it every time you go into a simulator or take a flight on a trainer; you derive this joy from flying." Bill's face remained impassive, though with a hint of his ever present smirk. "And now that you've finally gotten a chance to fly and show the world what you can do," she continued, "you're worried that the war may be over before you can prove yourself."

Bill's smirk came out in full force now, basically becoming a smile. "You got me pegged," he said. "Except for the worrying part. I don't do that."

"Oh, we got a live one here!" a younger woman remarked. "I take it you want some action, eh?" she asked.

"I wouldn't mind some action, if that's what we're talking about," Bill said. The older one, the one who he talked to first, raised her eyebrows.

"Yeah, you're not really my type," she said, prompting Bill to laugh aloud, drawing attention from the others on the ship. "If you want a girl that'll give you action, there's one that'll give you lots," she said, as she pointed out the window.

Bill looked at her for a moment longer, then decided to take a look out the window at the ship they were heading to. As he got up to walk towards the window, the entire ship shook, throwing him off his feet, and several others to the floor.

"Ow! Godsdammit!" he said, as the craft shook again. "What the hell's going on?"

"We've been ambushed!" someone said. Bill wasn't sure who said it; they were right either way.

He finally made it to the window, and honestly had no idea what the frak was going on.

Instead of the rather calming blue background of the nebula they had been in, it was bright. Like, really bright. The background was a blood orange, with a blinding white light from what seemed to be underneath. Bill realized it was a star, and a large one at that, which was a mere few thousand kilometers away.

 _Why the hell are we here now?_ He wondered. _There's no stars even remotely close to the nebula_.

Vipers and Raiders darted between plumes of extremely hot gas, glowing a dull orange when they strayed too close. Arches of plasma formed and dissolved, forming frankly fascinating displays that enthralled him, even as it almost blinded him.

He tore his eyes away, looking for a familiar ship. His eyes alighted on Galactica, engaged in a duel with two foreign ships. Bill didn't know what ships they were, but felt that they were likely Cylon.

 _Wait,_ _Galactica doesn't have all of its armor,_ he thought, as he realized that indeed, where there would be numerous thick armor plates, there was only superficial armor and structural ribbing.

His thoughts were cut short when he caught glimpse of another ship, distinctly different from the other ships engaged in combat.

It was slender, certainly more elegant than the more egalitarian look of Colonial ships. The upper section was shaped into a sleek and futuristic saucer shape, connected to a rather tubular section via a gentle and sloping neck, for lack of a better term. Connected then to the tubular section were two… _Rods? Rockets? Engines?_ Bill wondered, connected by two curving arms, the fronts glowing blue with what appeared to be suppressed energy, seeming to almost burst with unreleased power. Bill, who had been dazzled and awed by the magnificence of the star, now couldn't take his eyes away from that ship.

 _Wow,_ he thought. _What a view._ A shout from someone else on the craft caught his attention as the lights went out and he started to float.

While his expression was of mild surprise at first, it quickly turned to horror as a Colonial warship, one he had never seen before, slammed into the shuttle with an earsplitting groan, causing the smaller vessel to buckle and rupture.

With a loud rush of air, everyone was quickly sucked out into space. Bill gripped an armrest tightly, desperately trying to cling onto it even as he knew there was no chance he'd survive. His grip slipped, and he, too, was violently launched from the shuttle into the dark void of space.

* * *

William Adama woke with a start. Blinking rapidly in a vain attempt to force his eyes open, they fell upon the alarm clock, which read _4:37 AM_.

Adama sighed, and fell back onto his bed, trying to fall back asleep. He tried for another 20 minutes or so before realizing that he couldn't; he just wasn't able to sleep again. Grumbling, he got up, took a long shower, and began brewing a pot of coffee.

 _Well, that was some dream,_ he thought. _I must be_. His phone chirped.

" _Commander Adama, report to CIC, Commander Adama, report to CIC_ ," Gaeta's voice crackled on the speaker. Adama sighed. _Duty calls_ , he thought, as he got up and waded his way through the crowds of people towards the CIC.

* * *

He regained consciousness in a flash, desperately trying to get oxygen back into his system via heaving gasps.

He felt around, feeling the leather cap he had on his head and the felt jacket he had donned previously. His breath misted up every time he breathed, and he felt cold. Really cold, like winters on the Iowa plains. He found a breathing device attached to his jacket, and he began to breathe with it, making it a little easier.

A loud explosion rocked whatever he was in, rocking him in place. He scrambled to get up, and his hand hit something on the floor. _A camera?_ He wondered. _I wonder if I should film whatever's going on._

He managed to get to his feet, crude film camera clutched in hand, and looked out the side of whatever it was he was on.

 _Well, at least I now know it's a plane,_ he thought. _But the plane's getting shot at. Shit._

He fumbled with the camera for a few moments before finally turning it on. He began filming, taking in the view of dozens of identical planes; large, heavy, and kinda of slow, flying through what basically was sheets of flak fire. As he changed the view point to another plane, it was hit by anti-aircraft fire, beginning to burn and spin out of control. It slammed into a nearby plane, both of which exploded and fell out of the sky towards the ground, far, far below.

A struggle caught his eye. He glanced off to his right at two men seemingly wrestling. _No,_ he thought. _Not wrestling. One's holding the other._

"Hey, it's going to be alright, just hang in there-" one was saying, trying in a vain attempt to soothe the nerves of the other man, who was having none of it.

"No, we're all gonna die! I gotta get home!" the other man shouted, throwing himself off to one side, trying to escape the iron grip the other man had on him.

"We're going to be fine," the first man said. He looked at him.

"Johnson! Tell the Captain we've lost all cover to our six!" the first man shouted over the noise of engines and what sounded like flak fire down below. He looked around the plane, looking for whoever was Johnson. Then, not finding anyone, he turned back to face the first man, and pointed at himself.

"Who? Me?" he asked. The first man gave an extremely exasperated sigh.

"Yes, you, you dumb fuck. Now get to the cockpit!" he shouted. "Johnson" quickly nodded, then wormed his way around the two men, the hysterical one now screaming out for his momma.

He squeezed through into the next section of the plane, only to find what was left of a body sitting in what was left of a chair, shrapnel having come through and shredded the quite unfortunate guy to pieces. He fought off the urge to gag, or throw up, or simply to shit his pants. Jaw clenched tight, he carefully made his way past the dead body, and made it to the bomb bay.

It was open, very open, with only an 8 inch wide walkway and rope handles stopping him from losing his balance and toppling over to fall several miles down to the ground. He braced himself, took a deep breath, and sped across, not looking down for a single moment. Coincidentally, shrapnel ripped into the section of the plane he was just in not a moment before. "Johnson" shuddered as he realized he would've been shredded if he had hesitated for a little longer.

He made it across, and then entered the cockpit, where the pilot and copilot were concentrated on keeping the plane in the air.

"Captain!" "Johnson" shouted, as shrapnel ripped through one of the bomber's engines, which began smoking. "We lost cover to our-"

BOOM! A sudden loud explosion shook the entire plane. "Johnson" looked towards the sound of the explosion, and saw that the engine was flaming and belching smoke. The plane started vibrating, likely due to the fact that one of the plane's engines had just gone up in flames. The pilot swore.

"Shit. We're out of extinguishers!" he yelled. He looked back to the front, then back at his copilot. "Shut off the fuel valve! Feather Prop 2!"

The copilot nodded, and quickly began to shut down the engine and fuel lines to Feather Prop 2. Unfortunately, it didn't work.

"We're losing oil pressure," the copilot said. "She's not shutting down!" A loud screech caught their attention.

The engine, still trying to spin he propellor even as it was burning, finally gave out along with the propellor blade. With a large snap, the blade ripped almost clean through the engine housing and tore a large gash through the wing of the plane, causing them to flinch back reflexively. He looked around, and sighed as the engine, or what was left of it, stabilized and they left the city behind them in flames. He smiled.

"We made it," he said. The pilot grinned.

"Maybe we did," he said, right before bullets tore through the cockpit, killing both the pilot and copilot instantly, and slamming into "Johnson's" back. Oddly not feeling anything, "Johnson" shouted, "Computer! End simulation!"

* * *

The scene immediately paused, the pilot's head and copilot's chest suspended mid-explosion, and caught in its gruesome glory. They began to dissolve into pixelated streams of code, followed by the surrounding planes, then the actual plane and its accompanying objects. And finally, "Johnson's" outfit, which faded into a stream of pixels, to be replaced by a formerly crisp but now wrinkly and quite sweat-soaked Starfleet Captain's uniform. The ship's chief engineer, Montgomery Scott, ran in, almost giddy with joy.

"Did you see how well that worked?" he asked, his already mildly strong Scottish accent thickening even more with his excitement. "Do you realize the potential applications of this technology? Training, simulations, movies, television shows, historical reenactments, they're almost limitless!" he said. "How real did it feel, Captain?"

Captain Jim Kirk shuddered slightly. He could still feel cold. "It felt very real. To the point as to be uncanny," he said. Scott smiled.

"Wonderful! Our test was successful!" he exclaimed. Kirk nodded.

"I'm gonna change now," he said, as he left the new "Holodeck" and back to his quarters.

Entering the room, he washed up, changed out of his uniform, then collapsed on his bed and fell asleep.

* * *

It felt cold. Kirk wondered if he was back in the Holodeck again. _No,_ he thought. _I'd remember being on the Holodeck._ It was also dark. Kirk yelped and swore when he stubbed a toe on something lying on the ground. He felt around. _No, not lying on the ground. Something solid, something that goes up to chest height._

Lights suddenly flashed on, temporarily blinding Kirk. He flinched, bringing his hands up to shield his eyes from the glaring white of the lights. The lights dimmed, enough to not permanently blind him for life, of which Kirk was sarcastically grateful.

He looked down towards the thing he had stubbed his toe on. It was a bench, and a plush one at that, laden down with soft pillows and fabrics that went up to about waist height. He looked down farther. He realized he wasn't wearing any shoes or socks, and the ground was covered with red felt. It felt nice to Kirk, who rubbed his feet on the carpet for a few seconds. He gazed around the rest of the room, which was more of a large chamber.

Kirk's watchful gaze went to the stage at the front, and the multiple levels and floors, each with their own array of seats and benches. He realized that it was an opera house, well appointed and completely bare.

 _Odd,_ he thought, as he slowly made his way to the stage. He didn't notice before, but now he realized that there were five white robed people, standing solemnly in a line on the state, robes practically glowing. _Correction. They're actually glowing,_ Kirk thought. _Weird._

He made it to one of the stairways leading to the stage. Walking up that, he got onto the stage itself, and noticed what looked like a… _bathtub?_ Kirk wondered. There was also an old and wrinkly man in there, who looked like he'd been lying there for the last three days. Kirk's expression was something between weirded out and "what the fuck".

He slowly made his way towards that old wrinkly man, noting that the white-robed people seemed to be looking at him as he made his way across the stage. He stooped down, and waved his hand in front of the man's face. No response.

Kirk now saw that the liquid in the bathtub was in fact not water, but some gooey substance. Intrigued, he reached down to touch it, fairly confident that it wouldn't kill him or do anything horrendously horrendous.

And that was when an hand grabbed at his with an iron grip. Kirk yelped in surprise, and attempted to pull back and stand up, but fell over awkwardly as his hand was gripped too tightly. The old man jumped to life, his head practically on a swivel, turning to face Kirk.

"Kara Thrace is the Harbinger of Doom," he said, his voice deep as a bass. "She will spell the destruction of both races. Humanity will die at her hands." his expression, though remaining rather hard, seemed to soften into fatalistic acceptance. His next words sent a chill down Kirk's spine.

"All of this has happened before, and will happen again. Again. Again. Again. Again."

* * *

Kirk jerked upright in his bed, soaked in sweat and breathing quite heavily. He looked around in mild panic, and calmed somewhat when he found that he was in fact still in his quarters, "calming" music playing in the background; he, curious to see what popped up, went to check; the song on right now was a random song on a retro playlist he had found on the Net, which, coincidentally, was Sabotage by the Beastie Boys, which brought a smile to Kirk's face. And then he yawned, and yawned some more. Yawning almost continuously now, he promptly fell asleep.

* * *

The sound of an alarm clock jolted Kirk out of his slumber. Groaning, he rolled over, and repeatedly slapped the alarm clock, hoping one of his hits would get lucky and turn it off, or at least hit the snooze button. No such luck.

Grumbling under his breath about shoddy engineering on behalf of the clock's makers, he got up and turned off the alarm. He sighed. _And so begins another day in another week._

He washed up again, brewed 6 cups of strong black coffee, and was about to chug down his 3rd or 4th cup when he received a hail from the Bridge.

"Captain, your presence is needed on the Bridge," Spock said coolly, ignoring the fact that Kirk looked like he'd gotten into a fistfight with three people at the same time and lost. Kirk sighed.

"On my way, Spock," Kirk said as he cut the transmission, changed into his uniform, and walked out into the corridors of the Enterprise.

 _A Captain's work never ends,_ Kirk thought as he entered the Bridge. He plopped right down into the Captain's Chair.

"So," Kirk began, as the crew turned in their seats to face him expectantly. "What are we gonna find today?"


	2. Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellem

Chances of Survival

Chapter 2

* * *

A.N: This chapter was pretty hard to write, to be honest. I'd like (constructive) criticism wherever possible, so that I can write better and stuff.

This chapter got delayed a long time, due to shifting priorities and being busy, sorry about that. The problem now lies with the upcoming third chapter; it relies heavily on the pilot episode of Battlestar Galactica, and it's not readily available online. So expect to wait a long, long time until I manage to find time to rewatch it on Blu-Ray enough times to actually write something meaningful.

On the other hand, Lord Maximus followed me! That makes me very, very happy. He's, like, _the_ main reason I started writing stories to begin with. So, I'll just say here that I'm a huge fan of your Star Trek/BSG crossover series.

Plz notice me senpai

* * *

Commander Jonathan Turner sped-walked his way down the corridors of the Scorpion Shipyards' command center, reviewing his last orders before taking off for the unknown. He needed to turn in some paperwork, mainly of the "I need a status report on (list completely inconsequential aspect or part of his ship), pronto" kind, not to mention he had to meet Admiral Roswell one last time, too. In fact, he was so absorbed in his work and his plans for the next two hours or so that he didn't notice an older officer walking in the opposite direction down the hallway until he nearly collided with him. Looking up at the last second, he attempted a sidestep, ending up bumping into the wall, his papers threatening to slide out of his hands and land haphazardly all over the floor. He managed not to, however, and apologized.

"I'm sorry," Turner began. "I was distracted…" he took a second glance at the man he had almost run over. _Wait,_ Turner thought. "Commander Adama?"

Adama smiled. _I guess he remembers me,_ he thought wryly. They had served together for 7 years, Adama as the X.O (Executive Officer) of the _Atlantia_ , while Turner was the commander of the air group of the ship. "Hello, Jon," Adama greeted. Turner looked somewhere between awe and intrigue.

"I didn't know you were even on the station, Sir, or I would've come by to say hello," Jon said. Adama smiled a rare smile.

"We're the same rank, Jon," Adama replied. "You don't have to call me Sir anymore." He reached his hand out. "And congratulations. You deserved it."

Jon smiled, and gladly took Adama hand and shook it. Thank you," he said. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Adama nodded. It had been a long time since he served on the Atlantia; something close to 8 years by now. "Yes, it has been too long." Come to think of it, Adama hadn't heard all that much about Turner for the last 8 years or so; other than a passing mention that Turner made XO of the _Pegasus_ , and later that he had been given command , he honestly didn't hear much of him. _I guess I need to catch up a bit later,_ Adama thought.

"I heard that the Admiralty gave you command of one of the new _Nova_ -Type Battlestars," Adama remarked, noting that Turner's uniform had the patch of the _Prometheus_ on it. Turner nodded.

"Yeah, the _Prometheus_. We actually launch in two hours," Turner said. He noticed that Adama's patch was different from the somewhat simplistic patch of the Battlestar _Valkyrie_.

"Are you still on the _Valkyrie_?" Turner asked. Adama shook his head.

"No," Adama replied. "I relinquished command of her two weeks ago." That really got Turner's attention.

"Relinquished… So you're no longer the Commander of the _Valkyrie_?" Turner asked. Adama nodded confirmation.

"As of two weeks ago," he said. Turner's face was somewhat inquisitive.

"So what are you going to do now?" Turner asked. Adama smiled wanly.

"I _was_ going to retire," Adama started. "But Admiral Nagala practically dropped to his knees, begging for me to stay for at least one more tour, to see _Galactica_ off into retirement.

"The _Galactica_?" Turner asked, clearly shocked at his old superior officer and mentor's new command. "She's a bucket! Hell, she's the oldest ship in the fleet. It's a wonder she wasn't decommissioned years ago."

Adama snorted. "The Admiralty presented her to me as an honor, and an honorary position, due to the fact that she was the first ship I was assigned to as a pilot during the First Cylon War."

Turner nodded. He, along with many younger officers, were required to learn about the First Cylon War in their history classes, and oftentimes were told about the daring adventures of Colonial heroes, William Adama among them. Unknown to Adama himself, he had actually gained a sense of mysticism about him. Some of the younger members of the military talked about him on the same level that Adama himself had revered Tornvald, a legendary pilot during the First Cylon War.

Of course, many of the older or more experienced officers knew that Adama was just a human. Granted, an extremely talented pilot and tactician with many successful operations under his belt, like in the Gemonese Civil War. The fundamentalists, unhappy with the more liberal reforms regarding issues like abortion, protested. When that failed to change anything, many rose up, arming themselves and kicking off a literal civil war on Gemenon.

Adama was the XO of the _Columbia_ at the time, which was ordered to assist in keeping order over Gemenon. Unfortunately, the commander met a sticky end when, visiting the surface to attend a speech by the then President of the Colonies, President Kynaston, a bomb went off in the crowd, killing the commander of the _Columbia_ and wounding several senior officials, the President included. Adama then took over command, and proceeded to assist in and coordinate the decisive Gemenon Offensive, in which several detachments of Marines captured the rebel-held capital city, capturing several key leaders and accelerating the end to the civil war.

All of this information flashed through his mind in an instant as he brought up memories from military academy and his early career, and disappeared just as fast as he stored them away, potentially to reflect on later. He focused back on Adama.

"Truth is, she's more a consolation prize than anything else; I was passed up for promotion," Adama said, with a mix of both discontent and fatalistic acceptance. Turner shook his head.

"That's a load of crap. There's no one I know that deserves to be promoted more than you," he said sincerely. Adama raised a skeptical eyebrow, with a hint of "I-know-something-you-don't-know" on his face.

"Cain was promoted over me," Adama added somewhat belatedly. Jon chuckled softly, his hands conceding defeat.

"OK, _almost_ no one," he began. "Still it kind of galls me to think that the Admiralty can keep you as a Commander forever."

Adama smiled in his own, completely understanding way.

"The Admiralty don't want old relics in their ranks, me included. They want fresh and young hotheads, aggressive and headstrong. Cain is a good example."

Turner nodded. "I felt that she was a great mentor, and deserved her new rank in every way. But I still don't think that means they should exclude you, either." His watch beeped, and he looked at the time.

" _Shit_ ," Turner swore. "I'm running late. I have to get these orders to Roswell, then get my ship ready for launch. Sorry for cutting out conversation short."

Adama waved it off. "It's fine," he said casually. "I'm sure we'll see each other again once your mission is over. I'll invite over for a drink sometime then."

Jon nodded, and smiled widely. "Sure thing. And maybe I'll be back just in time to see the Admiralty finally come to their senses and promote you." Adama smiled and shook his head.

"I'm pretty sure either the Cylons will have to come back or I die before I get a chance at promotion." Turner grinned, and extended his hand. Adama grabbed his, and shook vigorously.

"Good luck on your mission, Jon," Adama said.

"You, too, Bill," Turner replied, as they smiled one last time before both walking away to their respective ships, both having the feeling that circumstances would be drastically different when they crossed paths again.

* * *

After washing up and grabbing a quick bite to eat and running to the head (the restrooms, including showers), William Adama strode into CIC, which earned him an inquisitive look from his executive officer.

"You're a little early today, Bill. Your shift doesn't start for another hour and a half," Tigh asked. He was an older looking man, a few years older than Adama, with a thin, wiry build, receding hairline, and rather stern and sardonic face. He was looking at Adama with a look somewhere between confusion and mild concern. "Everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," Adama said, unable to shake off the feeling that something big was going to happen. Tigh shrugged, unable to make out what Adama was thinking, whose face was completely neutral.

"Whatever you say, Bill," Tigh said.

* * *

President Adar shifted in his seat. He was about to make a live speech over radio for the commissioning and launch of the new Battlestar _Prometheus_. He'd been told he was a good public speaker, and he was completely sure it was true; some also said that he was extremely egoistic, though Adar had no idea where they got that idea from. He took a deep breath, and shifted yet again in his seat. The audio engineer in the room overseeing the speech gave him the thumbs up. Adar braced himself, readied his cards, and began.

"Citizens of Caprica, and all the other Colonial worlds. Today marks the commissioning of the Battlestar _Prometheus_ , and also marks the beginning of a new generation of Colonial warships."

" _Prometheus is a name that carries a lot of history. The original Prometheus, under the command of Rear Admiral Gastineau, fought in several key engagements in the First Cylon War, distinguishing herself as a key factor in the eventual victory."_

Adama and Tigh looked up at the speakers in _Galactica_ 's CIC. Tigh shook his head.

"'A key factor in our eventual victory'? This is bullshit," he remarked. Adama nodded.

"Adar's known for rather extravagant speeches. I'm not surprised at the way he described the Armistice as a victory."

Tigh snorted. "When has he ever spoken the actual truth? Politicians," he said in disgust. Adama nodded consent.

* * *

" _In command of the new Battlestar is Commander Jonathan Turner, a seasoned officer with years of experience. I have the utmost trust in his abilities to command."_

Turner smirked. "I guess they approve of me. Took them long enough," he said half sarcastically. His XO, James Ryan, laughed out loud. He was quite a young man, something like over a dozen years younger than his superior officer, with a hard yet mischievous face. His eyes were a piercing neon blue, which many people found fascinating and odd at the same time. He carried himself with the air of a Special Forces Marine; calm, collected, a morbid and weirdly perverted sense of humor, and the look about him that said that he could crush you if you crossed him the wrong way.

"Well, it was about time you got a command of your own," Ryan said. "I'd have to have a word with the Admiralty otherwise."

" _And without further ado, I wish Commander Turner and his crew well, and pray the Gods are ever in their favor._ "

"Well," Turner remarked. "That was an interesting speech."

"Sir, Admiral Nagala has authorized launch," the helmsman, a woman by the name of Shockley, reported. Turner nodded.

"Thanks, Helen. Prepare to undock and depart," he ordered, as the crewmembers in CIC began to prepare for the Prometheus' departure.

With dull thuds that could be heard throughout the ship, the docking clamps disengaged with an explosive burst, support arms beginning to drift loosely. The _Prometheus_ ' engines flared to life from a dim glow to a bright bluish-green plume of ionized gases.

"Docking clamps are disengaged, and engines are engaging," Shockley said. Turner grinned. He was finally doing it.

"Engines ahead one quarter, starboard roll 45 degrees, and plane the bow up 45 degrees," Turner commanded. Shockley nodded.

"Yes, sir," she said, hands already adjusting speed and course with the help of her console's controls.

"Take us out, and carefully," Turner directed. Shockley muttered a quiet , "Yes, sir," and expertly maneuvered the large and bulky warship out of its rather cramped spacedock and into the slightly less cramped space around the shipyard.

"Helen," Turner suddenly said. She turned to face him, an expectant look on her face. "Where is _Galactica_ docked?"

Shockley poured over the information on her station console, then checked the DRADIS.

" _Galactica_ is docked in Berth 26C, sir."

"Maneuver the ship to take us past her," Turner said. "It's time to say our respects to an old friend."

* * *

Adama looked at the DRADIS displays set overhead the central Command and Control Station at the numerous items shown on-screen, watching as the blip representing the _Prometheus_ slowly and surely made its way past the tight space of its dock and out into more open space. Tigh walked up, and stopped to stand next to him.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Tigh asked. Adama nodded. Though he couldn't actually see the ship right now ( _Galactica_ 's CIC had no viewing ports or windows), he had seen design plans and schematics, and watched in awe during the commissioning of the ship itself. He closed his eyes, conjuring up in his mind the Battlestar, with its lines and curves, the rough texture of the ship countering, though complementing, the sleek shape.

"Give me telemetry on the _Prometheus_ ," he said, turning to face Dualla. She nodded.

"Aye, sir," she replied, inputting the requisite commands. Reading through the data now streaming through her display, she read, "The speed is 3-4-4-2, and the location is Bearing 2-8-5, Carom 0-1-5, Orientation 0-8-6, 0-2-2, 3-5-6. Telemetry shows that their internal systems appear operational with minimal issues." She leaned back in her chair to relax a bit more when the console chirped again, notifying her of a change in the telemetry of the _Prometheus_. After several moments of sudden anxiety, and, for some reason, abject fear, she calmed down a little, realizing that it was a mere orientation change.

" _Prometheus_ is adjusting orientation and speed to S-2-5-5-5, Orientation 0-8-6, 0-2-2, 0-4-1, and holding," she reported. That caught Tigh's attention; his head practically spun on his neck to face her, then turned back to Adama.

"45 degrees rotation to starboard?" he asked. Adama looked at him, finally understanding.

"The Starboard Dip," he said, voice low enough that it was practically a whisper.

Adama couldn't remember the last time someone had executed a Starboard Dip; it was a practice that actually preceded the First Cylon War, one that showed great respect and admiration to the officer on the receiving end of one.

The practice died out soon after the war ended; a new crop of officers began to supplant the war veterans, and Adama saw the Dip less and less, until the only time he'd see it was when the other veterans like him would occasionally do it for another. But they were basically all retired or dead now, which meant that someone as "young" as Turner executing one for Adama was quite the surprise. He turned to Dualla.

"Prepare to send a audio transmission," Adama ordered.

"Yes, Sir," Dualla said. She quickly and efficiently opened up a communications channel with her _Prometheus_ counterpart, who promptly forwarded the request directly to Commander Turner.

" _This is_ Prometheus _Actual,_ " a tinny voice could be heard over _Galactica_ 's CIC's speakers. Adama picked up his receiver, and was quickly linked to Turner.

"This is _Galactica_ Actual," Adama started. "Good luck out there, Jon."

He heard Turner laugh on the other end.

" _Don't you forget about that drink you promised me. I want a bottle of ambrosia, preferably cold, when I get back._ "

Adama smiled. "You'll get that, once you get back. Any particular kind?"

There was silence on the other end as Turner thought his options through. " _There's a nice little bar in Caprica City. I think it's called The Hub; has good drinks, and it's run by twins_."

"Twins?" Adama asked, confused by Turner's mention of the place's owners.

" _Twins. They're so alike, it's kinda weird. They're like clones of each other. Anyways, I want a large bottle, or at least a glass of ambrosia there once I'm back._ "

"I can do that," Adama replied. "May the Gods be with you."

" _And you._ "

Adama smiled once more, and put the receiver back into its slot. Dualla ended the transmission a few moments afterwards. He didn't move for several seconds, hand hovering right above the phone that he just put up, deep in thought. Tigh looked at him with concern.

"Bill? You alright?" he asked, snapping Adama out of his thoughts. He shook his head.

"I'm fine," he said quietly. "I just have a bad feeling about all of this."

Tigh was confused. "Whaddya mean, Bill?"

Adama didn't even turn to look at his old friend. "Something tells me that Jon and I'll meet again," he began, voice slow and deliberate. "But things will never be the same."

* * *

"Come in!" a voice shouted over the noise.

Jurgen Belzen, also jokingly referred to as "Jerry" by some of his peers, entered his commanding officer's room.

Looking around, he again took in the miraculously neat interior, everything clean, organized, and spartan in appearance. Looking towards his right, he saw a messy bed, set in stark contrast with the rest of the immaculate room. A treadmill was set off to the left of the bed, and on it was the commander of the Battlestar _Pegasus_ , attached to Battlestar Group 62; Rear Admiral Helena Cain, who was poring over schematics for the restructure of the flight decks of the _Pegasus_.

She was sweating rather lightly, much lighter than most would as the pace she was setting; Walking up to her, magazine rolled up in his hand, he tapped the schematics she was reading and quipped,

"That's your idea of vacation reading?" he remarked, face set in a seriously sarcastic expression, eliciting a short chuckle out of Cain. She took a look at the magazine. Her face grew concerned.

"And that's your idea of a hobby?" she asked, pointing to the copy of "Skorpia Paragliding" he was holding. He unrolled it, and gestured, and snarked,

"Yeah." he said. "It is. So," Belzen continued, "Have you figured out how you're gonna spend your shore leave?"

Belzen could see Cain thinking her plans over. "Well," she said. "I was thinking of going home to Tauron, see some friends, but I haven't made any definite plans, no."

He nodded. "Ah. Well, in that case, how about spending some time with us on Gemenon?" he asked. "I know Rika and the girls would love to see you."

Cain didn't say or do much of anything for several moments. Belzen groaned half-sarcastically.

"Come on, Helena, you deserve a break," he said. "You've been going full-tilt for over a year now. Push yourself far enough, and you just can't anymore."

Cain sighed. "Look, I've got a repair list for _Pegasus_ as long as my arm, our network's going to down for the retrofit, and you know how I don't like the Pegasus left in the hands of a bunch of civilian contractors; the _Solaria_ was out for another 6 months after the private contractors had their way with her," she said as she began to do the whole read-and-walk thing. Belzen shook his head, and even wagged a finger.

"Alright, listen to your XO," he began, finger wagging in front of Cain's face. "Every once in awhile, it's okay to get off the treadmill." After giving his sagely advice, he crossed his arms, and gave his commanding officer an expectant look.

The Admiral nodded. "I will think about it," Cain said, prompting a skeptical look on Belzen's face. "I'll think about it," she repeated, trying to placate him.

After giving Cain a solid 15 seconds of skeptic staring, he appeared to be satisfied. Smirking a little, he nodded, and promptly walked out of the room with a quick and polite goodbye.

The moment he was out the door, she adjusted the treadmill's settings, doubling the speed with minimal amounts of her effort required to keep up. Memories were resurfacing, dark ones, ones that were threatening to overwhelm her as she tried to keep the tidal wave of emotions from flooding in.

* * *

" _Helena!_ " her sister Lucy yelled from behind the remains of a playground slide as she jumped between the two parts of a broken swing set and darted off into the mass of downed buildings and disorderly array of shipping crates.

The Cylon Centurions, alerted to the noise, pushed forwards, spraying the playground area with machine gun fire. Lucy screamed and curled tighter against the bright blue plastic as bullet holes tore through the ground and playsets around her.

Helena could hear shouts and gunfire intensify as the Colonial Marines fired back, taking defensive positions and slowly pushing up towards the Centurions through the play area. She heard someone cry out, and turned just in time to see a Marine fall to the ground right before being speared through the chest by a Centurion, who ripped the blade out of the unfortunate woman's chest, dripping red with blood.

Normally, she would've have been sickened, but she had seen so much blood and gore and horror the last few months of the Cylon siege of Tauron that she, unfortunately for her, was only shocked. The Centurion, noticing her, turned to face her, bringing up its machine gun to bear on her. She jumped behind a cargo container just in time to dodge a spray of high-caliber gunfire from the Centurion, who began to pursue her.

Darting from cover to cover, she kept running, hoping and praying from the bottom of her heart that the Cylons, particularly the Centurion actively hunting for her, wouldn't be able to catch her. She was breathing heavily now, sweat streaks now staining her shirt even in the cold autumns of Tauron. She ducked, she weaved, she slid between buildings and through alleyways, desperately trying to escape the mechanized killing machine hunting her. She glanced back many times, checking to see if the Centurion would be right on her tail, machine gun pointed at her and ready to kill. No sign of it, and she relaxed a little.

She slowed, and stopped, visibly sagging. She sat, bracing herself against a pile of old tires.

She sighed, somehow managing to do so between deep, gasping breaths. _Oh, Gods. At least I managed to get away. I wonder where…_ A sudden thought occurred to her; _Lucy!_

Icy claws gripped her heart at the realization that her sister might be taken by the Cylons; experimented on, like the crew of the _Penthus_ , who, save for one, were never seen again after their capture by the Cylons. The lone survivor was rescued by Colonial forces during the Battle of the Ice Planet, and recounted his experiences with great and horrifying detail; Helena heard horrible things about being captured, and resolved to never let herself be captured, even if she had to kill herself. She couldn't let that happen to Lucy. Not to her little sister.

"Lucy!" she shouted, hoping her sister managed to get away, and hoping she could hear her. Nothing.

" _Lucy!_ " she shouted louder, in another vain attempt to find her sister. And still nothing.

She began running, dodging back and forth, between crates and cars, barrels and bodies, shouting her sister's name all the while. She tripped on a bundle of loose wires, and face planted right into the ground. Helena struggled mightily, but only managed to shift the wires around a little. Panic rising in her, she shouted out in frustration and anger. She wrestled with the wire for another minute or so before stopping, mentally and physically worn out.

 _Calm yourself,_ Helena told herself. _Panicking won't help._

She took several deep breaths, and carefully extracted herself from the messy tangle of cables keeping her trapped. With a quick and triumphant little "Yes", she freed herself, and took off in the direction of the playground as fast as she could run.

Sweat soaked and breathing in deep, heaving gasps, she burst out into the broken remains of the playground, and slid right to the spot her sister was in before.

No one.

Desperate, she looked around and scanned the play area, trying to catch even a fleeting glimpse of a purple coat and dirty blonde hair.

There! Helena's hopes soared upon catching sight of her sister, but then sank when she noticed her sister, bound and gagged, being dragged away by the Centurions. _No..._

" _LUCY!_ " Helena screamed, as she dead sprinted towards her sister and the Cylon soldiers.

" _LUCY!_ " she screamed again. The Centurions heard her, and began to advance towards her when a Marine appeared out of nowhere, gripping her around her chest and pulling her away from the machines.

"You can't!" he shouted, as she flailed and screamed louder. "There's nothing you can do!"

Helena was going hysterical, swatting at the guy's arms and legs, hoping that he might let go and let her reach her sister. The Centurions had reached the ramp of their heavy landing craft, Lucy being carried along for the ride.

Helena finally managed to her captor a savage kick to the man's genitalia, doubling him over as he clutched it tightly. She took the opportunity to dash forward and towards the Cylon spacecraft as the ramp began to close, hoping that she wasn't too late, that she would, somehow, be able to help her sister.

Alas, that was not to be.

With a resounding _clang_ and _thud_ , the ramp sealed shut, and the engines began to lift the ship off the ground.

"No!" Helena yelled. " _NO!"_

She put on a final burst of speed, and propelled herself upwards with the help of a well-placed piece of a swing set, towards the departing spacecraft. Her hands hit the side of it, desperately trying to find a handhold, and finding none. She fell back down to earth, landing with a crumpling noise on the rocky soil.

Tears streaking down her face, she watched as the Cylon ship blasted into space, her sister on board, never to be seen again.

* * *

Cain blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears in her eyes from flooding over and running down her face.

Taking several deep breaths, she calmed herself down, suppressing the tidal wave of emotions that flowed through her. Face set in a hard line, she jogged faster, ever faster, if only to escape the dark confines of her thoughts.

* * *

Kirk awoke with a start, sweating profusely and gasping for air.

He took in his surroundings. He hopped slightly in bed; it was softer than the one in his quarters, with an expensive blanket and bedsheet; much nicer than the utilitarian Starfleet-issued blankets and covers that he got.

The bed was situated next to a wall with a large and expansive window overlooking a lake, with mountains dotting the horizon beyond. It was a very beautiful view, one that Kirk would kill- _well, not kill, but maybe physically assault for,_ he joked. A series of sliding glass doors formed most of the third wall, and a mass of sleek, black screens finished the fourth.

"Is this a dream…" Kirk wondered as he rubbed his arms. He kicked the wall next to him, and yelped as the pain shot up his leg. "Sure doesn't feel like it," he ground out.

He slowly rolled out of the bed and shifted onto his feet right before he fell off, and noticed that he was wearing his Starfleet captain's uniform. _Weird,_ Kirk thought. He half-walked, half-limped towards the window, the pain already wearing off, and went and did some quality sightseeing for several minutes, just taking in the view of the lake and mountains.

Kirk probably could've continued sightseeing for quite a while longer if it wasn't for a slight noise behind and to the right of him.

He whirled around, hand instinctively reaching for the holstered phaser he preferred to bring during more "sensitive" missions; he relaxed slightly at the reassuring weight and feel of the weapon, though he wasn't sure why he'd carry a phaser to bed, much less wear his uniform with it.

He crept up to the sliding doors, and slowly and deliberately slid them open, careful to make as little noise as possible. He sneaked onto the deck outside; the wood felt smooth against his feet, though it was cold.

Phaser set to low stun, he peeked around the corner with care. He caught a glimpse of two people; one, a tall blonde lady with an extravagant black, lacy dress; the other, a shorter man, with slicked back brown hair, sharply angled face, and a simple, yet expensive-looking red woven shirt. The two were behind a second set of clear sliding glass doors, and were speaking quietly, so he only managed to pick up small snippets of their animated conversation.

" _So you're telling… you're a machine?_ " the man asked. The woman nodded consent, and replied with something Kirk couldn't make out.

" _You know I wanted… defense mainframe…_ " the woman said afterwards. The man replied with what appeared to be a retort, one that appeared to sting quite a bit, for the lady's face soured significantly.

" _The children of… return…_ " the woman stated, seemingly as a matter of fact; Kirk didn't catch much of what she said, and so was confused as to the underlying meaning. He made to back off when, alas, he stepped on a squeaky floorboard, which made itself heard by causing quite a loud noise; or, at least, loud for Kirk, whose senses were heightened to the point that the dropping of a pin would've sounded like a gunshot to him. The lady stopped and went rigid. She said something Kirk couldn't hear, and the man seemed to become apprehensive. The lady stayed still for a moment, then turned around quickly, drawing a weapon from a waist holster as Kirk slid out of cover, bringing up the phaser to bear on the lady, weapon set on high stun/medium burn.

None of the three moved for several moments, both the elegant blonde and Captain Kirk sizing up the other, Kirk noting that the lady was using an antiquated kinetic weapon, while the lady noted that Kirk was using a futuristic sidearm that she had never seen before. The man intervened.

"Alright," he began. "Can we all not point guns at each other? Elena, put the gun down; it's not nice to shoot strangers." The lady, whom Kirk now knew was called Elena, begrudgingly put her weapon down. Satisfied that he wasn't going to get shot anytime in the next few seconds, Kirk visibly relaxed and holstered his phaser. Again, no one moved for several more moments. And yet again, the man was first to break the silence.

"Alright, so, why were you trying to break into my house?" the man asked, a slight British accent becoming more and more pronounced. "Do you know who I am?"

"Uh…" Kirk stammered. The man groaned and facepalmed.

"I can't believe this. Have you been living under a rock for the last 30 years?"

Kirk wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"The name's Gaius Baltar, I'll have you know," the man, now known as Gaius Baltar, said. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of me. Are you from the outer colonies? And what's with those clothes?"

"Uhh…" Kirk stammered again, unsure whether to tell this Baltar guy the truth. He waved Kirk off.

"No matter," he said offhandedly. He turned to face Elena. "Do you know what they'll do to me if they find out?" He spoke quietly, trying to keep his voice low enough so that Kirk wouldn't hear, but he heard anyways.

"Find out what?" Kirk asked.

"Eh, nothing," Baltar stuttered. Elena chuckled.

"Oh, Gaius. Humanity's doomed, and all you can think about is what they'll do when they find out you were the one to doom them all."

Gaius shook his head and pointed at her animatedly. "I had nothing to do with this," he said in a low voice. Kirk's attention was decidedly grabbed now.

"What?" he asked. "Humanity's doomed? What's that supposed to mean?" He unholstered his phaser and set it for kill, aiming it at Elena. "Who is she, really? And what does she have to do with this?"

Gaius extended his hand in a placating gesture. "Now, there's no need to be hasty about this," he said.

Kirk, thoroughly sick of Baltar's tomfuckery when he was sure Elena had specifically mentioned humanity's inevitable demise, set his phaser for high area effect, pointed at the wall next to them, and fired.

The phaser kicked in Kirk's hand, firing a bright green phaser bolt that slammed into the wall and blasted a large 3-meter hole clean through it and into the next room. Baltar recoiled in surprise, yelping at the sudden lack of something like 7 square meters of wall. Elena simply stared at the weapon in Kirk's hand, now wary and privy to the knowledge that that very piece of high tech metal could, with ease, kill the both of them with minimal effort. Kirk pointed the phaser back at her.

"So tell me," he said, raising the setting higher, to the lowest vaporize setting. "Who are you, and what did you mean when you said humanity's doomed?"

Elena smiled in spite of herself and the fact that the man in front of her was feeling really jumpy on the trigger right about now. "I'm a Cylon, one of the children of Humanity; and Humanity's children are coming home, today," she said. Her tone became one of a priest, preaching sermons to his or her followers. "And the parent always has to die for the child to come into their own."

Kirk paled slightly at the ominous undertones her statement carried. He was about to ask Baltar some more questions about his conversation with her when he recoiled and screamed in pain, frantically rubbing his eyes as a bright flash was seared into his vision. Kirk, who was facing away from the flash, squinted his eyes as the light reflected off the walls and blasted light right at his face. Elena was the only one who seemed to be not affected.

Kirk turned to face the source of the brief yet intense burst of light, and his heart sank.

A mushroom cloud was slowly rising from the series of mountains dotting the horizon, and a shockwave was closing in, and fast. Baltar was sent into a panic, looking around frantically while pacing around nervously.

"This can't be happening, this can't be happening, this can't be happening," he mumbled. He looked at Elena. "How are you getting out of here?!" he practically shouted. "You must have an escape plan! That bomb will kill you, too!"

Elena shook her head slowly. "I don't. My body will die here, and I'll re-download into a new body."

Gaius looked up at her. "You mean, there's more out there like you?" he asked.

Elena nodded. "There are twelve models; I'm number six," she replied.

"Oh, Gods," Baltar mumbled as the shockwave neared; Kirk, knowing that he was definitively going to die here, and he acknowledged that. He turned to face the mushroom cloud; it was beautiful, in its own way; Kirk couldn't really describe it.

The blast wave was passing over the lake now, sending up massive waves of water, only for it to boil away soon after being picked up by the shockwave. Kirk knew that he only had a few seconds to live; he could hear Elena say, "Get down." he closed his eyes, and relaxed his muscles as the shockwave passed through the house and through them, killing Kirk instantly.

* * *

Kirk practically leaped out of bed with a start, instinctively reaching for his phaser when he noticed he was back in his quarters, rolled up in his Starfleet-issued blanket and covers, wearing nothing except a simple white pair of underpants. He sighed, took one look at his alarm clock, noted that it was 3:22 in the morning, and flopped back onto his bed. He lay there for several minutes, trying to fall asleep; unfortunately for him, the little "vision" left him quite awake; the whole incident with being blasted into oblivion by a nuclear bomb after hearing that humanity was to be wiped out did wonders for his sleep schedule. Realizing that wasn't going to be sleeping tonight, he crawled out of his bed, got into his uniform, and walked out of his quarters.

Walking to the mess, he bumped into Lieutenant Commander Giehl, the commanding officer of the _Enterprise_ during the current shift. She stopped and saluted Kirk, standing at attention, much like soldiers did in the militaries of yore. Kirk gave a similar, yet less rigid salute.

"At ease, Lieutenant Commander," Kirk said. She nodded.

"Don't see the Captain often this early in the morning," she said, still being very formal. Kirk nodded.

"Had a…" Kirk thought for a moment, trying to find the right phrase. "A bad dream."

He could tell that the Lt. Commander was a bit on the skeptical side; the subtle change in facial expression and shifting of weight to her dominant foot told Kirk that she was thinking more along the lines of "the Captain probably was spending time with a girl until three in the morning". She took a deep breath.

"Well, Captain, I have to return to the Bridge," she said, saluting Kirk again. "I'll see you later, Sir."

She began walking off, but stopped when Kirk said,

"Look, I'm sorry." Kirk quickly walked after her, cutting her off in the corridor by stopping right in front of her. Her face remained impassive.

"Sorry about what?" she asked rather pointedly. Kirk sighed.

"About that whole...incident three weeks ago," he said. "I know, I came on too hard, and kept pushing when I shouldn't have." He straightened. "It's not right for a Captain to fraternize with members of his crew like that, and I want to say that I'm sorry for that, and that I hope we can move on from this."

Diehl's face softened somewhat, though she her expressions were still hidden under a mask that Kirk couldn't see through.

"Well, in that case, I also have to apologize for my reaction," she said finally. Kirk waved off her apology.

"It's fine, I'd do the same thing if I were you," he said. Her eyebrows rose, easily copying Spock's patented raised right eyebrow, and then some.

"You'd push your superior officer off a balcony?" she asked, confused. That brought Kirk up short.

"Well, now that you put it like that…" he said. He shrugged. "I'd probably still do it, overly pushy men be damned."

Diehl looked like she wasn't sure whether to be mildly disgusted by the captain or mildly impressed. The next look on her face told him that she decided to be a bit of both.

"Well, I have to get to the Bridge now, Sir," she said. She saluted him again, and said, "I'll be seeing you again soon, it seems. Farewell, Captain."

"Farewell to you, too, Diehl," Kirk said. He saluted back and smiled. They shook hands and parted ways.

Walking to the mess hall to grab some coffee, his mind wandered back to his two "visions".

 _An opera house and a house owned by a certain…_ Kirk couldn't remember the guy's name, actually; he found it strange, as he remembered his first dream in crystal clear detail, and the second one in nearly the same level of clarity, though for some reason, he couldn't quite remember the two people in the house; when he tried, the faces remained blurred, and the names remained elusive. Every other detail remained clear to him; the clothing, the house around them, the scenery outside. But not those two.

 _What does it mean?_ Kirk wondered. _Is it an omen? The shape of things to come? What does it all mean?_

* * *

Cavil huffed and puffed up a flight of stairs.

"When I find the person that built this place, I'm gonna strangle him," he said to himself. A Six was walking next to him, and gave him a curious look.

"Wasn't it a One that designed the Convocation Hall? I think his name is Lucifer or something," she said, earning a pained look from Cavil.

"Elena, do you ever just shut up?" he asked. She seemed to mull it over for a few moments before shaking her head.

"I don't think so," she said. Cavil snorted.

"There's something distinctly defective about you," he told her. Elena looked offended.

"Defective? What's there about me that's defective?" she walked faster, then cut Cavil off in the hallway, standing stubbornly in front of him. Cavil made a general gesturing hand towards her.

"Your…" Cavil seemed to actually struggle to find the right word, something Elena didn't see often; in fact, Elena couldn't recall the last time Cavil had to search for a word; he just knew. "You're not like the others, that's for sure."

"Every Cylon is different from each other, one way or another," she countered. "Even among those of the same model."

"We're machines, for God's sake," Cavil said, clearly exasperated.

"Experiences define who we are," Elena replied. Cavil sighed and shook his head.

"Code does. Now let's get to the Hall; I don't want to be late just because you dragged me into a philosophical discussion." The two began walking again, and after a few doors, they reached one of the main entrances on the 5th floor. They promptly walked through, and took their seat, Elena admiring the view while Cavil seemed to doze off. Elena found that strange; Cavil implied that he wanted to see this, but, she admitted, he could just have easily said that to get out of talking. She shrugged and went back to admiring the view.

It was a large and open area, rows upon rows of seats and overhanging balconies allowing tens of thousands of people to sit and watch the potential spectacle below them on a flat stage in the center of the entire room. Already, 8,000 were seated, with entrances still being flooded as more and more entered.

In the center of the stage, a simple, unadorned metal table was placed there, with 7 people sitting there, each one representing each of their respective models; Elena noticed that 5 seats were empty. The others were in a heated discussion; Elena could guess what.

* * *

"This is a clear provocation by the humans!" a One angrily stated, slapping the palm of his hand on the table to emphasize his point. "They're sending a frakking Battlestar Group out; the Prometheus, the Sentinel, and the Vigilant are being sent on a deep-space mission."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," a Six said, trying to placate the clearly agitated One. "Not everything the Colonials do is to try to destroy us."

"Oh, give me a break," he said, waving her off. "They're frakking humans. Of course they're planning to destroy us; it's the only thing they can do, and the only thing they can do well."

"So you're saying that those outer mining colonies are there to ensure our destruction? The settlements on the outer moons?" the Six asked skeptically.

"The mines help supply the Colonial war machine, and the settlements produce men and soldiers," the One countered. "So yes, they are."

"And what are you proposing we do?" the Eight, dressed a lot more casually than the others, at the table asked. Cavil gave her a confused look.

"What else are we supposed to do?" he asked pointedly. "We have a threat, a grave threat, one that threatens our very survival. Logically, in order to stay alive and to ensure our survival, we must remove that threat."

"You're proposing we wipe out humanity?" the Six asked. Cavil snorted.

"No, I'm proposing we give them tea and invite them to supper - of _course_ I'm proposing we wipe out humanity, what did you think?" he retorted. "One of us is going to do away with the other at some point, no doubt about it. If we don't do something about the Colonial problem, the Colonials will do something about the Cylon problem." He sat down from his assertive standing position, and leaned back in his seat. "The launch of Prometheus and her fleet is just the first step in their plan."

"And exactly how are we supposed to wipe them out?" the Six present asked Cavil. "They're spread out on over two dozen worlds, and the Colonial Grand Fleet outnumbers and outguns us. The _Columbia_ held off three Basestars, and was winning, I might add, before the rest of the 3rd Fleet arrived. We can't go to war with them; we'll lose."

"Who said we have to fight them fairly?" Cavil countered. "Our chief advantage is our expertise in cyber-warfare; with the recent integration of networked computer systems like that garbage fire of code they call their 'Command Navigational Program'; the thing's so riddled with garbage code and logic holes that I'm surprised it works in the first place." He made a sour face to get his point across.

"I have to agree with the Ones," the Four at the table spoke up. He had been shifting from sitting to standing; he was a bit too tall for the seat to be comfortable, something he found rather impractical and odd, though he admitted it was more efficient to produce one size of chair. "The Colonials have been discussing potential moves against us since we left 39 years ago; our sources say that fringe political parties are gaining ground in the Colonies and calling for the Colonials to go to war, to 'end the Cylon problem once and for all'". He paused to drink some water and collect his thoughts. "If we don't do something soon about this problem, then the problem will come back to hurt us later. Better to deal with it now."

"So the Fours are agreeing to this?" the Six at the table said, clearly distressed about where the debate was going. The Four present nodded. The Five at the table also nodded.

"What Cavil's saying makes sense," the Five said. "We know these Colonials; they're immoral, savage, 'inhumane', as much as I dislike the word, and greedy; you've all read the reports, the ones about death and crime statistics; they don't deserve to live, and, if we leave them be, they'll destroy everything we've built and everything we've achieved."

"So the Fours and Fives are also agreeable to this?" the Six present asked, becoming more and more distressed. "That mass genocide against humanity is the only option?"

"Yes!" Cavil replied enthusiastically. "What we'll do is we'll finally end this, once and for all; wipe the stain of humanity from the stars."

"Genocide wasn't part of the plan," the Two present spoke up, having been mostly quiet throughout the majority of the discussion.

"Genocide is a sin in the eyes of God," Six added. Cavil groaned and facepalmed, rubbing his temples.

"Not this God argument again!" he said, clearly exasperated at their mention of their religion's deity.

"Don't blaspheme," the Six shot back. "God takes blasphemy very seriously."

"I'd be more scared if he actually existed," Cavil retorted, drawing a horrified and disgusted look from Six. She, Cavil, and the others quickly got drawn into a loud and increasingly obstreperous argument, with people speaking over others, who then spoke louder to make themselves heard; it was a vicious cycle, one that kept going on and on and on, and the Three at the table was sick of it.

"QUIET!" she shouted, voice carrying loud and clear over the rest of the group, who quickly stopped and turned to face her. She took a deep breath, and continued.

"I've been spending time, praying to God and meditating over this matter," she began, words chosen carefully and clearly enunciated. "And He has answered my prayers."

"And what does His Almighty say?" Cavil said sardonically. Three looked at him sharply, then ignored him.

"My instincts tell me that the Colonials are up to something," she began, speaking in a low voice as to keep it among the people convened in front of her. "Until we know what they are trying to do, I recommend putting off our plans for now. One small armada is not of much import, not when they're cut off from the Colonies and especially not when the majority of the Grand Fleet awaits. Send out a scout to keep an eye on the Prometheus and her fleet; we can deal with them later. But for now, as they pose no threat to us at this moment, we leave them be."

"And if they do pose a threat?" the Five at the table asked.

Three smiled a cold, heartless smile. "Then we blast them out of the sky."


	3. The Face of The Enemy

Chances of Survival

Chapter 3

* * *

Author's Note: Holy shit, I'm so sorry. It's been 7 months, and I haven't posted jack shit. It was a lack of motivation, coupled with increased interest in World of Warships and an intensifying school schedule. And as it stands, I can't define a set date for when the next chapter'll come out, so I'm sorry in advance.

* * *

With practiced skill and precision, the ship carefully docked with the station. With a quiet hiss, the airlock was pressurized, and a man in a Colonial uniform walked out, briefcase and papers in hand. Turning a few more corners, he finally reached the central chamber. It was a simple affair, a relatively small room with two hallways branching off in opposite directions, separated by two sets of heavy metal doors, and a small wooden table with two wooden seats sitting in the center of the room. Grabbing one of the chairs, he plopped right down into it, opening his briefcase and taking out assorted items: framed photos of his wife and son, diagrams of the Cylon War Model #005 Centurion and its variants being among them. The final thing he pulled out of his briefcase was a copy of the entirety of the Cimtar Peace Accords, signed something like 40 years ago, roughly around the time he was in middle school, if he remembered correctly. He glanced at the photo of him and his wife and his child, all smiling while taking a picture in front of Caprica City Stadium, just an hour before the Buccaneers and the Panthers duked it out in the match of the decade. He sighed; it'd be another week before he'd see them again, another week before he could leave this shithole station out in the middle of nowhere, a place where no one dared nor wanted to travel to. His eyelids dropped lower and lower, and he dozed off.

He wasn't quite sure how long he had been asleep when the second set of doors opened with a gentle hiss.

With a sort of quiet finale that seemed anticlimactic after everything that happened previously, the first Cylon Centurions seen in almost 40 years trundled into view, motors whirring faintly in the background. The officer glanced down at the technical diagrams, back at the very real Centurions, then back at the papers again, looking from the papers to the machines in disbelief.

With a series of clicks, their hands flipped in and extended out, forming "fingers" with razor sharp tips; the officer realized that the hands could retract and extend machine guns; that would explain the conspicuous rod-shaped parts on their hands. They stood to attention, red eye constantly moving back and forth in its visor, as if sweeping the room. The officer looked on apprehensively.

A new noise caught his attention. The sound of footsteps; more specifically, the sound of a person with high heels walking down the corridor. The officer's curiosity was aroused, as he stared intently at the opposite entrance of the room. But he was caught by surprise by what he saw.

A woman walked around the corner, and directly towards the table. She was of slim build, with wavy blond hair that fell right to her shoulders, and pale blue eyes that seemed to be always watching, always looking, always analyzing. She was wearing a simplistic red dress, with minimal cuts and extra flair, with knee-high high heels. She extruded a sense of confidence that clearly showed as she walked into the room, and past the table to sit on the edge right next to the Colonial officer, who was looking quite pale and unsure of what was going on or what he was supposed to do.

She spent several moments looking at him, glancing at him from this angle, and from another, her veridian blue eyes observing, taking in every little detail of his face. The officer sat there, confused and slightly fearful, as she gazed at him for several seconds.

After those several seconds, she seemed satisfied with her analysis. Leaning ever so closer, she gave the faintest of smirks.

"Are you alive?" she said softly, the words seeming to barely float past her lips. The officer merely gazed, unsure of what kind of question she was asking. Shaking his head ever so noticeably, he simply said, "Yes."

She dropped her gaze, and seemed to give the answer some thought. After a few seconds of consideration, "Prove it," she almost whispered, as she leaned in for a kiss.

Their lips met, almost dispassionately, the woman pressing her lips to the officer's, who merely accepted it, before returning the kiss more passionately. The Centurions present gave a quick and inquisitive glance before resuming their guard.

* * *

Almost with uncanny stealth, the Cylon Basestar slowly made its way over the station, its sheer size blocking out the light from the nearby star. With barely a sound, a missile was launched, its warhead making not a sound as it traveled almost lazily through the air to hit the station's lower antenna array, blasting through it and throwing the station off-axis.

The officer pulled away as the station shook violently and klaxons began to blare out, signaling this and that, but all with the same message: something wrong was happening.

The woman smiled and grabbed the officer's head with both of her hands and smiled as he began to struggle, trying to escape to his ship before either the station was destroyed or something worse was about to happen.

"It has begun," she said poetically, before leaning in once more for a kiss as the officer could only struggle in vain as a second missile hit, detonating inside the station and for all intents and purposes obliterating it into a thousand small chunks and pieces of metal to be strewn about the cosmos.

And with that came the beginning of the end.

* * *

It was a bright spring day. The skies were a deep blue, sprinkled with only a tiny handful of small cirrus clouds streaking across the sky. Birds were chirping, flying about and going about their day as the people down below did the same, shuttlecraft coasting overhead. All in all, it was a normal, nice April day.

Kirk and Spock walked along the sidewalk in Starfleet headquarters, Kirk walking with the posture of an excited child, Spock like the annoyed parent in charge of the aforementioned child.

"Spock, I'm telling you," Kirk said, seeming to want to burst out into a run. Unlike Spock, his standard-issue cap was scrunched up in his hand. "This is why he called, I can feel it."

Spock gave him an inquisitive, yet skeptical look as he turned his head slightly. "Your feeling aside, I consider it highly unlikely that we will be selected for the new program." This time it was Kirk's turn to give him that same inquisitive-yet-skeptical look.

"B-but, why else would Pike wanna see us?" he asked. He stuttered some more, a symptom of his simultaneous excitement and surprise as Spock's lack of it. "Forget about seniority, they gave us the newest ship in the fleet. Who else are they gonna send?"

"I can think of numerous possibilities-" Spock began, before being cut off by Kirk.

"It's a 5-year mission, Spock!" Kirk enthusiastically gave Spock a playful punch to the chest. Spock continued walking without pausing. "That's deep space! That's uncharted territory." Kirk appeared to be physically on the brink of hopping up and down like a little kid. "You'd know how incredible that's gonna be." Kirk did a sort of spin as he gave his signature smirk to a small group of women walking by. "Hey, ladies. Jim Kirk," he said as he whirled around again to resume a normal walk with Spock, who rolled his eyes ever so discreetly.

* * *

"Uneventful," Pike said, reading off a paper report as Kirk and Spock stood at not quite attention, but still in a formal manner. Something about that singular word bothered Kirk. Pike was very good at disguising the meaning behind his words, but this, this was just dripping in sarcasm, something Kirk thought a tad bit out of character.

"Admiral?" he asked, putting on a confused expression. Not liking the way things are going…

"That's the way you described your survey of Nibiru in your Captain's Log."

"Ah, yes, Admiral," Kirk began right away. "I didn't wanna waste your time going over the little…" Kirk's words slowly trailed off just as Pike interrupted.

"Eh, tell me more about this volcano," he began, voice still cynically sarcastic. "Data shows that it was highly volatile, and that it was about to erupt and wipe out the planet."

"Let's hope it doesn't, sir," Kirk replied. Pike gave him a not-quite-skeptical look.

"Something tells me it won't," Pike said, a half smile on his face, which was practically bleeding with unspoken sarcasm and underlying understanding of what actually happened.

Alarm bells were going off like crazy in Kirk's head now, though he tried to keep it from showing on his face. Spock was even appearing to show emotion. His eyes slowly slid over to look at Kirk.

"Uh, well, sir, the term volatile is relative, so maybe our data was off." Kirk scrambled to find something to try to throw Pike off his tail, though at this point he suspected that it was too late, or it was too late the moment he came back to Earth and he handed in the Captain's Log…

Someone told Pike. A voice in the back of his mind told him that, and he realized that this was almost certainly true. There was no other reason for the Admiral to call the two of them here in the first place; his confidence in their being called for the 5-year mission was long gone, replaced with a sense of dread.

Pike absorbed the words for a moment, and pondered them. He nodded slightly.

"Or," Pike began, with the tone of someone giving advice or a helpful tidbit of information, "maybe it didn't erupt because Mr. Spock detonated a cold fusion device inside it." Pike's tone was changing, changing from one of sarcastically "helping" to stern and cold. "Right after a civilization that's barely invented the wheel, happens to see a starship rising out of the ocean!" His gaze shifted to Spock. "That is pretty much how you describe it, is it not?" He gestured towards Spock, indicating for him to answer. He took a deep breath.

"Admiral-" he started before being cut off by Kirk.

"You filed a report?" Kirk interrupted, his sense of betrayal all too clear in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Spock's face remained as impassive as ever. "I incorrectly assumed that you would be truthful in your Captain's Log."

"Yeah, I would have if I didn't have to save your life," Kirk retorted.

"A fact for which I am immeasurably grateful and the very reason why I felt it necessary to take responsibility for the actions-"

"Responsibility," Kirk interjected. He chuckled. "Yeah. That'd be so noble, Pointy, if you weren't throwing me under the bus," Kirk finished, a clear edge in his voice. Spock gave him a questioning look.

"Pointy? Is that a derogatory reference to my species'-"

"Gentlemen," Pike interrupted. He grabbed his walking stick, and then pushed his way up and out of his chair, grunting slightly at the effort. "Starfleet's mandate is to explore and observe," he emphasized. "Not to interfere."

"Had the mission gone according to plan, Admiral," Spock began, "the indigenous species would never have been aware of our interference."

"That's a technicality," Pike retorted. Spock's head turned ever so slightly at an angle, a typical blank expression on his face.

"I am Vulcan, sir, we embrace technicality."

Pike stopped his pacing, and looked over at the Vulcan

"You giving me attitude, Spock?"

"I am expressing multiple attitudes simultaneously, sir," Spock replied, face impassive as usual, but with enough emotion in the tone that Kirk was getting the distinct impression that Spock was being… sarcastic? Kirk wasn't quite sure. "To which are you referring?"

"Out," Pike said. He gestured towards the door. "You're dismissed, Commander." Spock looked at Pike for several moments. He then turned to look at Kirk, who was glancing at him before quickly looking away to stare straight forward. Hat still in hand, Spock simply walked out the door.

Pike waited for a couple moments for Spock to leave the room and out of earshot. He took a few more paces, stopped, took a deep breath, and then gave Kirk a sideways glance.

"You have any idea of how much of a pain in the ass you are?" he asked Kirk.

Kirk nodded. "I think so, sir."

"So tell me what you did wrong, what's the lesson to be learned here?"

"Never trust a Vulcan-"

"See, you can't even answer the question, you lied!" Pike's voice, at first low and calm and quiet, was now rising. Gone was the calmly even-tempered voice of Admiral Christopher Pike, and in was the loud, full, and commanding voice and presence of Captain Christopher Pike. "On an official report, you lied!" He quickly closed the distance between him and Kirk. "You think the rules don't apply to you just because you disagree with them!"

"That's why you talked me into signing up in the first place, that's why you gave me your ship," Kirk retorted smoothly, without missing a beat.

"I gave you my ship because I saw a greatness in you, the potential to be something more," Pike shot back, eyes reproachfully glaring at Kirk. He chuckled a sarcastic chuckle, bitter smile on his face. "And now I see you don't even have an ounce of humility."

Kirk turned to face the Admiral, edge in his voice. "And what was I supposed to do? Let Spock die?"

"You're missing the point," Pike interjected, before being interrupted yet again by Kirk.

"I don't think I am, sir." Kirk slapped on the "sir" as an afterthought, with enough sarcasm for even Spock to tell in an instant it was. "What would you have done?"

"I wouldn't have risked my first officer's life in the first place!" Pike said, Kirk looking on with a bored expression on his face. "You were supposed to survey a planet, not alter its destiny! You violated a dozen Starfleet regulations, and almost got everyone killed-"

"Except I didn't!" Kirk retorted. "You know how many people I've lost since I became Captain, not one!"

"That's your problem, you think you're infallible! You think you can't make a mistake! It's a pattern with you! The rules are for other people!"

"Some should be," Kirk inserted before Pike managed to get another sentence off.

"And what's worse, is you're using blind luck to justify your playing God!"

Neither said anything for several moments, Kirk's gaze dropping from the Admiral's. Pike's tone softened somewhat.

"Given the circumstances, this has been brought to Admiral Marcus' attention. He convened a special tribunal, to which, I was not invited to. You understand what Starfleet regulations mandate be done at this point."

That last statement caught Kirk's attention. His gaze, formerly glued to Admiral Pike's sleek wood and glass table, snapped back to meet Pike's eyes.

"They've taken the Enterprise away from you," Pike said, with an air of finality. "They're sending you back to the academy."

Kirk was speechless. For several seconds, he stood there, absorbing the reality and magnitude of what Pike had just said, gears rapidly turning inside his head. After a good several moments, he seemed to make up his mind. Licking his lips, he began.

"Admiral, listen," he said softly, but Pike wouldn't have any of it.

"No, I'm not gonna listen," he began before Kirk continued.

"I can justify-"

"No, you don't listen to anybody-"

"You understand regulation, but every decision I've made-"

"Enough!" Pike practically shouted, stopping Kirk's words dead in their tracks. His voice dropped down a few levels, the Admiral taking back over for the Captain in Pike. "I can't listen. You don't comply with the rules, you don't take responsibility for anything, and you don't respect the chair." Pike took a deep breath before continuing.

"You know why?" he asked Kirk rhetorically. A few seconds later, he answered his own question. "Because you're not ready for it."

Kirk stood there, unspeaking for a moment.

"What about the crew?" he asked. Pike thought about it for a couple seconds, then moved away from Kirk and back into his chair, walking stick carefully placed off to the side. With a few quick taps, he opened up the registry and updated status of the Enterprise's crewmembers.

"Let's see…" Pike said, scrolling through the list. He looked up at Kirk, who was still standing in the same spot he was in before.

"Well, Spock's being transferred to the USS Bradbury, for starters. He'll be serving under Captain Abbott. A strict man, but a fair one." He scrolled down a bit more.

"Chekov and Sulu work well as a team, as you stated in your previous reports." He read through the list some more. "They're to stay on Enterprise in their current positions. Uhura, on the other hand, is being transferred to the USS Nagato under Admiral Halsey. He's a bit brash and upfront and can be a bit off-putting, but he knows what he's doing, and I think Uhura will be fine there." He scrolled through the rest of the lists. "Well, unless you want me to go on about the lower rank crewmembers, I could. Ensign Syl is being transferred to Starbase 15 over Axanar, Lieutenant Collins is being promoted to Lieutenant Commander and being transferred to the USS King George V, and Ensign Bradley is being transferred to Starbase One for a little stint to try out the command track. And I believe that's about it," Pike said as he finished scrolling through and closed out of the list. His gaze went up to meet Kirk's.

"Anything else you need?" he asked. Kirk didn't say anything.

"Well, alright, then. You're dismissed. Report to Starfleet Academy in 2 weeks to begin re-orientation. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to file some paperwork."

And with that, Kirk walked out of the room, all traces of his former enthusiasm and excitement completely obliterated by the realization that he was no longer Captain of the Enterprise, no longer Captain of his ship.

* * *

Tigh walked into CIC, uniform unbuttoned, flask in hand, and saluted the officer guarding CIC. The klaxons were blaring away, the area bathed in a dim red glow.

"What do we got?" Tigh asked as he walked over to the Command and Control station, where Adama was standing, reading reports. "Shipping accident?"

Adama didn't say a word, merely handing a report over to Tigh, who began to skim through it.

"Combat?" Gaeta said, as he talked with someone over the phone. "Understood," he said before hanging up. He hung up before walking over to the Command and Control table to report to Adama.

"Condition One is set, all decks report ready for action, sir," he said, standing at half-attention as the rest of CIC bustled with the frantic movings of other officers and crewmembers carrying out orders and delivering messages. Adama gave him an approving look.

"Very well," he said, as Tigh finished reading through the report he was given, expression of complete disbelief on his face.

"This is a joke," he said, grin starting to slip onto his face. "The fleet's playing a joke on you, it's a retirement prank, come on."

He glanced at Adama, who gave him a serious look.

"I don't think so," he told Tigh as he picked up the phone. Tigh gave Adama the very same look of pure disbelief as Adama opened up the line. A piercing and vaguely whistling noise filled CIC as the phone's static cleared itself up. He waited a few moments for the people in CIC to quiet down before starting.

"This is the Commander," he began. "Moments ago, this ship received word that a Cylon attack against our homeworlds is underway." He paused for a bit to let the gravity of what he was saying sink in. "We do not know the size, or the disposition, or the strength of the enemy forces. But all indications point…"

"To a massive assault on Colonial defenses." Adama's voice carried through clearly and precisely on the speakers. Throughout the ship, the crew stopped what they were doing to listen, at first with curiosity, but increasingly with horror as the reality of his words set in.

"Admiral Nagala has taken personal command of the fleet, aboard the Battlestar Atlantia, following the complete destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters, along with the Picon 1st Fleet, in the first wave of the attacks. Heavy fighting was reported, with forces from the Colonial Grand Fleet engaging Cylon warships over Virgon, Caprica, Tauron, Gemenon, and the other Colonies."

Adama looked around the CIC, taking in the stunned, speechless, shocked, horrified, and million other expressions the faces around him showed. He continued.

"How, or why? It doesn't really matter now. What's done is done."

"But what does matter, is that, as of this moment, we are at war."

* * *

P.S: Hey, so, again, I'm so sorry for keeping y'all waiting. It's been so long, and I know some people have actually really been anticipating this for a while. Work on Chapter 4, which right now is untitled, is now beginning, though I can't set a finish date, as school and other priorities take precedence over this. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this, and once again, I'm really sorry for those who were waiting this long. I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again.


End file.
